The Wistful Skyline
The red wool of the scarf was dry, brittle at the edges, yet when Mara wrapped it around her neck, a heat bloomed against her collarbone that defied the drafty silence of the archive room. It was a small, threadbare thing, buried in a box of uncatalogued municipal records from 1994, and it smelled of dust and something faintly metallic, like old blood or wet iron. Mara, thirty-four, a junior...
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